A Day in Forever
by Alcyone
Summary: Ordinary days in an extraordinary life in a series of vignettes. JS. RomanceAngstSlight fluff.
1. Winter

He doesn't remember when the seasons lost their wonder. When winter snow and summer heat became little more important than day to day changes in the weather. Sun to rain, hot to cold. A thousand winters and a thousand summers blended like water and wine, diluted and vague and irrevocably commingled.

But it's only been twenty winters for her, of which she may only remember fifteen or so, and snow and ice still hold magic for her, the layer of snow blanketed on the ground still containing a hundred thousand possibilities. And so he watches as she wanders into a meadow, struggling to manage in the snow a skirt she isn't yet used to, and he wonders what she'll do. Cloudy and grey, it's a day best spent inside, by the fire, and yet she fights her way through the snow to an empty field. But then, she is nothing if not contrary, and it delights him.

Hoggle struggles behind her, grumbling, equally curious, and he wonders again at the creature's strange devotion, and envies him her friendship. The monster who can enjoy her companionship openly while the king disguises himself as an owl in a tree, brown and white and nearly invisible.

She drops to her knees and balls snow in her fist, shaping and inspecting and adding more snow and shaping again until it meets some standard only she knows. The ball of snow is the size and shape of a small pumpkin now and he can only wonder what she'll do with it. And she sets it carefully in a patch of untouched snow and pushes it around, and slowly the ball picks up more of the wet snow and becomes rounder and larger. She pauses and carefully packs on more fistfuls of the wet snow and rolls it again. She continues this strange task with a surprising tenacity, the tenacity of someone who is used to working for what she wants. Finally she appears to decide the ball of snow is large enough, though large enough for what? She studies the field, and rolls the ball, now almost too heavy to push, into a place the merit of which only she can see. And begins again.

Hours later, Hoggle has left, and she has three of these balls of snow in his stead, one set upon the other, the upper ones smaller than the bottoms. She looks on her crude creation in satisfaction. It is a sculpture of some sort. A snow sculpture. Utterly pointless, and yet fascinating. All this work and for what? She begins searching some nearby brush, holding up this odd branch, and then that one, looking for something, some quality she wants. But each branch looks like the next to me. She finds one that suits, and tosses it behind her with a carelessness that belies the thoroughness of her search. A second branch is found, similar to the first, and she carries the branches over to the balls of snow, shoving them deep into the sides of the middle ball. She surveys her misshapen creation, then undrapes her scarf from her neck and wraps it around the pile of snow, and it all becomes clear. It's a crude caricature of the human form, hardly worth the work she poured into it, but she seems satisfied. So very strange. So much work for something that will be gone in days.

She glances at the sky. The sun has nearly set. She's late, and she knows she's late. She mutters a curse and sets off for the castle, snow creature forgotten.

He meets her in the entrance hall. Her face, bright red from the cold and exertion, pales to white when she sees him. It irritates him beyond measure, and the pleasure of seeing her is gone.

"You're late," he hears himself say coldly. It's wrong, all wrong, but he can't take it back now. He's never had to learn to change his tone. His fury and hatred, anger and disgust have always been laid bare for the world to see.

She turns even whiter, if such a thing were even possible. "I lost track of time," she replies with equal chill, head held high with false bravado.

"I ask so _little_ of you, Sarah. All I ask is that you join me for the midday meal, and yet this seems too much. Perhaps a few days confined to your rooms will help you to remember your punctuality and what you owe to me as your king." Wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ – the word pounds through his head. Any other of his subjects would have been gasping their thanks, trembling with relief...but not this one. She's not an ordinary subject. Not a subject of his at all, for that matter. Brought here through a web of dirty tricks, lies, and deceit, she stands apart. Separate. As no one ever has.

She stands with her mouth gaping, too furious to speak. He knows she'll regain her tongue in a moment – it's not a lack of words that ties her tongue, but an excess, and he's suddenly weary. Weary of the battle, weary of his own ineptitude, weary of her stubbornness and her temper. He wants to take her in his arms, kiss her snow frosted hair, and sit her on his knee as she eats and tells of her day. It's a fantasy world worthy of a mortal's wild imagination, and he hates himself for it.

With a wave of his hand he sends her to her rooms. A move he knows has only made matters worse. Banishing has always been his favorite method of dealing with recalcitrant subjects, and old habits die hard. He knows that unlike other banished unfortunates, he can't keep her there forever. He's learning about actions and consequences for the first time. It's a painful lesson.

With another thought, he's slouching in his throne, brooding. Goblins instinctively edge away, irritating him further. For one who's had every thing he's ever wanted, the situation has taken an irreconcilable turn for the worse. Nothing is going as he planned. He wanted a laughing Sarah, an adoring Sarah, a Sarah who loved him as he loves her. He got a harpy with a violent temper who can't stand his presence.

No matter though. Tomorrow is another day. He has all of forever to win her over. But that's what troubles him. Forever isn't long at all.

A/N: My first labyfic, and my foray back into the world of fanfic after a year long hiatus. Concrit very welcome. Hope you've enjoyed.


	2. Spring

He sees her there, sitting against a low stone wall in a garden in the Labyrinth, enjoying the spring weather. Reading. He hesitates to disturb her. Her beauty there, on the emerald grass with petals falling around her, takes his breath away. A thousand years of wonders, and all else pales compared to her. And she has no idea.

The irony amuses him for a moment. King of all the land, he hesitates to enter a meadow for fear of disturbing a mortal girl, albeit one wrapped firmly around his heart. No. Not for fear of disturbing her. For fear of what she'd do if disturbed. Would she ignore him? Lash out? Or perhaps just give that small sad sigh, as if he were a bothersome puppy that simply couldn't believe not everyone adored him. The unpredictability that delighted him so now grates.

He's given her everything she could want and more. He created for her a perfect world, wearing himself out to bend the labyrinth to his will. The day is jewel bright, every petal that falls so artlessly around her is flawless. The stones she leans against are as a sculptor's lifetime work. Each blade of grass she sits upon exquisitely formed. The sun never blinds her, the breeze never chills her. He's charmed her with a thousand charms to make her life the better. Her chairs are never uncomfortable, her feet are never cold. Her hair never tangles, her skin never burns. And she never notices. He sighs softly.

She can almost see him there, out of the corner of her eye. Just standing. Watching. Waiting. She doesn't look at him, doesn't acknowledge him at all. But neither can she continue reading her book. So she waits. Though he doesn't know it, she's become accustomed to him. Though she doesn't admit it, she likes his company. Goblins, while amusing, make poor companions. She wonders how he's borne it for so long. Then she puts that thought out of her mind.

She's discovered she has a sort of sixth sense now. One that always tells her where he is, if she cares to know. It's sort of like the noise of the wind in the trees, or the feel of the petals falling gracefully onto her hair. She can ignore it mostly. But not always. She doesn't know if this is one of his spells or not. He's put so many on her. She can feel them. They're gossamer fine, but when they build up, they become a burden. She wishes she could peel them off. At first she thought them placed on her to torment her. Now she knows that he simply doesn't understand that the sweet is all the sweeter for tasting the bitter.

She wonders what would happen if threw her book aside, ran to him, and flung her arms around his neck. Part of her is tempted. That same part is tired of the fighting, the continual pointless battles. An inch gained this day, an inch lost the next. But it's not in her nature to surrender. Neither is it in his. And so they shall remain, head locked for eternity. She sighs, ever so slightly.

She knows he's there. There's a stillness, a tenseness even, that isn't present when he's not there. Or at least, when she doesn't know he's there. She hasn't turned a page in her book for the last few minutes. She's waiting. Refusing to look at him, refusing to acknowledge her at all. He wonders is this good or bad, and curses her silently. Every other female of his acquaintance is an open book to him. He can read them effortlessly, he knows their words, he knows their actions, before they take place. The goblins are better company. What they lack in intelligence, they make up in amusement.

He recalls his mind from its wanderings, and decides that he must either leave or do something. Merely standing there, waiting, is torturous. He reminds himself he is the king, he waits for no one. Then he reminds himself that this is the attitude which has caused him so much trouble with her in the past.

He approaches her on cat-quiet feet. She visibly tenses, but still doesn't acknowledge him. He debates several things to say, running them through his mind, testing her reaction. In the end, he opts for silence. He takes a seat on the stone wall above her. In her space, but out of it. She's sitting at his feet, but he feels no rush of power. It is, instead, gratitude that he feels. Gratitude that she's allowed him near her at all. He glances down at her quickly, then looks ahead, out over his Labyrinth. Slowly he relaxes as his mind traverses its paths. It's oddly companionable, just sitting there with her, and he's content.

A slight pressure on his leg, and he glances down. She's rested her head against his knee. The first time since he brought her here that she has ever voluntarily touched him. His heart races. She turns a page with forced carelessness. Taking his cue from her, he tears his gaze from her dark head resting on his knee and stares out over the Labyrinth, unseeing. Something rushes through his veins, something unlike anything he's ever felt before. It's almost like…joy.

A/N: Yeah, I thought A Day in Forever was a oneshot. Turns out it wasn't. Hope you enjoyed. Reviews always welcome.


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